


Fait Accompli (or, A Done Deal)

by trillingstar



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, Dark, M/M, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/pseuds/trillingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, in his daydreams, he escapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fait Accompli (or, A Done Deal)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eggshellseas](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eggshellseas).



> Contains, you know, issues. And bondage gear. AU. Some reworked dialogue lifted from the show. Thank you to [Dustandroses](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses) for the uberfast read through & top-notch encouragement.  
> 

  
Toby wakes up to a man saying, "Turn over for me," then grasping his ankle and knee, pushing Toby's legs over to the side. "That's right," he says, helping to get Toby propped up and leaning, a pillow shoved underneath his ass. The light chains on his wrists rattle as Toby's cuffs are unhooked from his thighs and then reattached to a long, smooth metal bar above Toby's head. He's felt his way along the rod, in both directions as far as he can reach, a couple hundred times at least, feeling for any imperfections, a crack, a chip, the tiniest divot, anything.

Toby lets himself be pushed into position. He's already learned that resisting is a poor choice, leading to such hard punches to the stomach that he'd thought that he'd never regain his breath. He doesn't even protest the hand-to-leg hogtie that he sleeps in, every night, unable to break the grip of the leather bands and metal fastenings no matter how hard he strains and pulls. If he extends his fingers and reaches out, he can almost rub the backs of his knuckles over the metal snap clip. Sometimes he thinks that the lengths are pre-measured, useful only for tantalizing him with the idea that he could somehow get lucky and figure out a way to release the clips.

"Good boy," the man says, his voice low, and Toby flushes at the casually humiliating words. He doesn't even know who's giving it; he can't see anything past the thick padding that covers the upper half of his face. At first he'd thought it was a simple cloth blindfold wrapped snugly around his head, but after several attempts at dislodging it, the man had freed Toby's hand and let him touch the hood. Leather, from the feel of it, with a zipper running sideways across his eyes, a cut-out for his nose and ears, and in the back, at the juncture of ties and closures, lay a tiny padlock.

The man had snorted when Toby had lashed out with his free hand, overpowering him easily and reattaching Toby's cuffed wrist to the bar. He'd let Toby yell and kick out for a few minutes, and then he'd straddled Toby's heaving body, pinning him to the bed. He leaned in close and whispered that there was an optional gag attachment – his cock. Toby had gone limp, rolling his head to the side and sucking in harsh breaths while he worked to regain control. Control. A laughable thought given his situation. There's no way he'd have the guts to bite down on the guy's dick; Toby knows he's the disadvantaged one here, and he has no doubt he'd be beaten. The last time he'd been punched in the stomach, he puked on himself, then had to lie still while it hardened and dried on his bare legs, wearing the smell of it for hours.

He's worn the hood for the past... well, he's not sure how long it's been. He's been fed at least fifteen times since he was ambushed outside of the bar and woken up here with the material covering his eyes, unable even to open his eyelids, seeing only darkness. He's lying on what he presumes is a bed, with approximately a two-foot drop over the side. His hands are tied, though he can slide them up and down the metal bar; his feet are sometimes freed, allowing him to sit up, or fumble his toes along the edge of the bed to the cold floor, but then they're bound again for meals; he always wears the cuffs, the hood, and he's always naked.

That's the worst part, except for the whole being-held-for-ransom. Not that he's ever been held hostage before, but he's been kept continually off-balance, and each time he remembers that he's unclothed is a tiny shock, though the surprise fades more quickly each time. He suspects that his nudity is some sort of psychological game, and the mindfuck's working, especially combined with the physical restraints reminding him of his vulnerability. Even if he knew where he was, he's still locked into a blindfold and bound hand and foot. Surely he's not a flight risk. His biggest problem is that he doesn't know why he's been abducted, and more terrifying is the fact that he hasn't been asked to speak into a phone or a recorder or hold a newspaper with the day's date on it while his kidnappers snap a picture.

What he does remember is winning the Nitikin case. The lead inviting the team out for celebratory drinks. Arriving at the restaurant. Buying everyone a round. He specifically remembers signing the credit slip for the drinks because the waiter had deep blue eyes that Toby – pardoning the lame humor of drunks everywhere – had fallen into, and he knows that he made a comment to that effect. He'd expected the guy to cringe or wince and back away, but instead a slow, thoughtful smile had curved over the guy's mouth. "Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Beecher," he'd said, and in keeping with the theme of the evening, Toby had thought that he might take the waiter home for some celebratory sex.

So he doesn't know why or where or who, but he's pretty sure that chloroform is the how (he remembers the sweet, cool taste of the breath he took) and the when is late. Very late. He'd hung around the bar after everyone else had left, but he hadn't even caught another glimpse of the hot waiter, so he'd finally bundled up and wandered outside into the cold flurry of snow.

Toby wonders, now, if the police had interviewed that waiter. He wonders if the guy remembered _him_.

There's nothing to do except freak out (check), worry (check), worry some more (check), hope for the cavalry (desperately), and keep track of the things that he can. The checklist includes hand-fed meals (fifteen); different voices (at least two, maybe three); crying jags (nine); times he's begged for phone calls (at least sixty), to talk to someone (too many to count), bribes he's offered (ran out of incentives kind of early so he made some stuff up), for a drink (upwards of two hundred, but who's counting); times his traitorous dick has hardened (six); times he's been told he's a good boy (too many. God, too many); times he's talked with Chris (not enough. Not nearly enough).

Toby knows that Chris is one of the men responsible for his abduction. He knows that Chris is kind of a crook and not the first time he's been involved with criminal activities, but that this time he regrets taking the job.

"I didn't know it was going to be like this, Toby," he had said. "I promise, I didn't."

Chris won't say who's behind it, and he swears that he doesn't know why, and Toby believes him. He has to believe in someone.

*

A day – well, maybe a day. He has no way of telling time, no clue as to the time of day. Still – what passes for a day in what passes for the life of Tobias Beecher. There's a milkshake of some kind in the morning, fed to him via a hard plastic straw. He sucks that down as quickly as possible because the man holding the cup tires of keeping it steady and often turns it into a game, forcing Toby to chase blindly for another mouthful. He'll get poked in the nose with the straw's tip, or the guy waves the cup around so much that Toby will have to sit quietly, mouth hanging open, his tongue out a little, slightly curved, and wait for the straw to come to him. That way's easier anyway and he gets the same amount.

Bathroom break. The thigh cuffs are removed, the chains unhooked, and he's pulled up and pushed into a tiled corner. There's an unevenly patched drain that Toby trips over every time, and then the chains are draped over a hook dangling overhead. There's no way to hold his dick and he endures the humiliation of pissing down the side of his leg, then submits to a cold drench of water lasting anywhere from what feels like two to ten minutes.

He curls up on the bed after that, shivering, chin and cheeks itching under the growth of beard, and waits for his hair to dry, water dripping down his neck, droplets tickling wet paths down his back and shoulders. Other times, afterwards, he's spread out, pinned down, the bands on his thighs reattached. Wet hair doesn't bother him then, but he'll have goose bumps all over as he dries, his skin sensitized and receptive to touch. Now, when Chris touches him during feedings, Toby feels light-headed, leaning into the cup of Chris's hand, little shivers under his skin.

The numbers are depressing, so he's stopped updating his mental counts as rigorously.

Wishing he knew what the hell was going on, mixed with fantasy indulgence about his rescue and subsequent execution of his kidnappers, takes up a lot of time. Sometimes, in his daydreams, he escapes.

What Toby really looks forward to is the time spent with Chris.

*

Dinner is by far the best part of the day, even with Chris feeding Toby as though he's a child or a pet.

But he asks about Toby's favorite foods and tries to get them. He makes sure everything is bite-size and he holds bowls and cups for as long as Toby needs. He wipes Toby's mouth with a paper towel.

"If you bite me, they'll stop feeding you," Chris tells him. "I don't want that. You need to eat."

*

"I wish I could see your eyes," he says. "I bet you've got beautiful eyes."

"They're blue," Toby volunteers.

"I wish I knew where the key to that mask was," Chris says, his tone practically wistful.

"You could unzip it," Toby offers.

"I- I shouldn't," Chris stammers, but through the leather, Toby feels the caress of Chris's fingers over the head of the zipper. "You know they've got video cameras in here? They're recording this; they can watch you at any time, or all of the time." He tugs at the zipper lightly, pulling up, not to the side.

"What?" Toby chokes out. He hadn't considered the possibility, and he feels utterly naked now, stripped bare. Barer. Double-dirty pool, not even allowing the privacy of emotion.

He lay awake for a long time after Chris left, cycling ideas in his head. Pick a reason, any reason: CIA-NSA shit. Mistaken identity. Snatch gone wrong. A broken link somewhere in the line of communication; one of these days he'll become expendable. Wild ideas, like germs, like quarantine or experiments. He's fresh out of law school, and he hasn't worked on any prominent cases. If it had been ransom, his family would have paid.

*

They work out a language of taps and light pinches to the backs of Toby's hands, his arm, and his thigh, messages telling him when to shift over or stretch his legs out. Chris rubs the tips of his fingers over Toby's mouth when he's switching from a straw to fingers.

Toby had been reluctant to talk to Chris, embarrassed and angry about his nudity, his weakness, the captivity, all of it.

"None of it's anything you chose, Toby," Chris had said. "I don't blame you for feeling ashamed."

Toby had chewed hard on a piece of apple in order to avoid answering.

"Don't stress it," Chris had continued. Toby pictured Chris shrugging his shoulders, pretending nonchalance, or maybe he truly hadn't thought it was a big deal.

Later, Toby pores over Chris's statement, analyzing it. Did he mean not to stress over it because anxiety was bad for his mental health? Or not to worry because he had nothing to worry about? If that was the case, was he saying that Toby looked good, or, even better, that Chris thought that Toby looked good? Christ, he can't believe he's wondering whether his goddamn jailer thinks he looks fuckable. But, Chris isn't one of the assholes. Right?

Chris helps Toby keep track of how many meals it's been (eighteen), and he talks about normal stuff while they do weird things, like when there's no spoon and Toby's sucking peanut butter off of Chris's index finger. Chris likes watching hockey - "When they fight" - and follows the Bruins; he complains bitterly that the government doesn't do anything except screw the poor; one time he mentions how brightly sunny it is outside, then brushes his fingers over Toby's cheek and apologizes. It's difficult not to flinch, but Toby controls it well enough, so unused to being touched with gentle intimacy, but not wanting to shy away either.

"I shouldn't have said that, I don't wanna tease you," Chris says, contritely, and Toby reassures Chris that he doesn't mind hearing about the sunshine. It's proof that there's still life outside of his prison.

Toby spends his nighttime thinking about the feel of Chris's fingers on his face, skin-on-skin contact, cataloguing all of the times that Chris has touched Toby's mouth, pressing his fingers to Toby's lips.

*

There's a variation in the pattern. The door opens and closes and the metallic screech of the chair being dragged closer to the bed are the same as normal, but then Chris's familiar voice says, "Hey, Toby," and Toby can't help but smile.

"Chris," he says, happily. He hears Chris lean forward, his clothed knee brushing against Toby's knee and presumably about to offer breakfast, so Toby opens his mouth obediently, ready for the first cold, smooth swallow of a protein shake.

Instead, Chris presses a fast kiss to Toby's lips and whispers, "How ya doin'?"

Shocked, Toby knows he's gaping, and then he recovers, swiping his tongue out for a taste of Chris. "Okay," he says numbly.

"Good." Chris sounds satisfied. "Look," he says, hesitantly.

Toby wishes he could raise an eyebrow questioningly, but settles for silence, feeling as though Chris has more to say.

He's right.

"I've been thinking about you," Chris whispers. "Been thinking about you a lot, like, there's gotta be something we can do about this." He slips his finger under the part of the hood laying flat against Toby's cheek and tugs it lightly.

Toby smiles wryly. "Oh yeah? What are _we_ going to do about it?"

"I don't know," Chris says. "Lemme think about it, huh?"

Toby shrugs one shoulder as best he can. "Whatever," he says. "Not that I don't want to get rid of the thing, but I'm kind of used to it by now."

Chris is silent for a long moment, and then he says, "I hate what they did to you."

"No arguments here," Toby says, trying to make it a joke, but it's too serious to be even remotely funny.

Chris allows Toby small sips of the drink so that he can stay as long as possible, and though they don't talk much, Toby feels as relaxed as he has since being taken.

"You'll come again later?" he asks after Chris says goodbye, sounding reluctant to leave.

"Yeah," Chris says. "You can count on it." He runs the palm of his hand down Toby's arm, fingers encircling his wrist and squeezing gently.

Toby moves without complaint when it's time for his shower, and he's so used to the routine that the hot trickle of piss down his leg barely registers. Instead of thinking about his checklist, he thinks about counting on someone, trusting them, and then he dozes, dreaming about Chris.

*

Meal twenty. Chris comes in on silent feet, startles Toby by running his whole hand up Toby's thigh and then raking his fingernails back down again. The scratches burn and Toby twists away, shocked, yelping "What?" and intending on more, but Chris cuts him off.

"Eat," he says brusquely, stuffing an orange slice into Toby's mouth. He rushes through everything, forgetting to tell Toby when the bite is bigger than normal, then letting out a grunt of annoyance when sauce dribbles down Toby's chin.

The connection that Toby has come to count on has seemingly disintegrated. "Chris?" he asks, tentatively.

No answer.

"Chris," he repeats, completely stumped.

"Shut up," Chris snaps out. He shoves a plastic straw into Toby's mouth.

Toby spits it out. "Is... is it something I did?"

"For fuck's sake, just shut up," Chris says viciously, as if he's spoiling for a fight.

Toby presses his lips together and tilts his chin up arrogantly, refusing to open his mouth.

"You'll take it if I tell you to, princess," Chris sneers. "The fuck did I ever want to talk to you for, anyway."

Stung by the harsh words, Toby's mouth drops open, but already he hears the scrape of Chris pushing the chair backwards, the rustle of paper bags, and then the door slams shut.

Oddly enough, Toby's seven thousandth rescue fantasy does not end in grateful, passionate sex, with Toby staring up into Chris's eyes as he sucks down what he's sure is Chris's big dick.

*

Nothing happens for a long stretch of time, what feels like days. Three days, maybe. Maybe? Probably two. It's hard to tell, his head's so messed up, and he feels blank inside. His arms ache. They're fastened far enough above him that he can't get his teeth anywhere close to the cuffs. His arms have been alternating tingling and numb for a long time and he's hungry and empty and crying. He doesn't care who's watching. Chris doesn't reappear, and neither does anyone else, so there aren't any meals, liquid or otherwise, or showers. Toby holds it as long as he can, but eventually he has to give in, moving to one end of the bed for his release and then back, as far away as he can get. The smell of dried urine is an excellent appetite suppressant, but his stomach still rumbles. His thoughts turns to abandonment and he realizes it's an actual possibility that he's been left there to die, doomed to starvation, never to see the sun again.

Hell, Chris wouldn't do that to him, would he?

*

It takes several minutes for Toby to know that he's awake because he hasn't seen anything past the backs of his eyelids for a long time. He stares blindly before he realizes that he's both seeing and touching the intricately embroidered quilt that's on top of the warm, plush bed he's lying in. The air does not smell like shit or sweat or hunger and it's a crashing relief, he's limp with it.

He looks around at a big white room, the furniture and fixtures awash in spills of light from a big white moon, rays streaming in two narrow windows at the very tops of the walls. The cuffs on his wrists are threaded with a long chain so that he has limited mobility. He's still wearing the thigh cuffs, too, and when he can't move his legs, he lifts the sheet to see that he's been hobbled with ankle cuffs, a thick coil in clear tubing connecting them. He could probably stand, but he's so tired, and as he's closing his eyes, a faceless man steps up to the bed.

"Toby, I need to touch you," Chris says.

Toby smiles sleepily. Good dream.

"Let me help you feel good," Chris says, thumbs pressing into the sole of Toby's foot. He runs his hands up Toby's leg, his fingers brushing just behind Toby's balls and Toby smiles again in satisfaction.

The man wraps his hand around Toby's hard cock, stroking it, and says, "You're all I fucking think about, Toby." He stretches up alongside Toby, yanking at the quilt so it's no longer between them. His body is hot against Toby's side. Chris licks at Toby's neck and jacks his cock and then moves down the bed while Toby watches it all through his eyelashes, sees himself shoot come onto a blurry masculine face.

Chris laughs and says, "Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Beecher," and Toby's brow wrinkles as he falls into sleep.

*

A piece of ice slides over Toby's lips and he opens them reflexively.

"Hi," Chris says.

Toby snaps his gaze up, finding Chris watching him warily. He holds up a little gray box and then speaks into it, and his voice distorts, made lower, and he sounds like the guy who's been waking Toby up, washing and feeding him breakfast, taking care of him.

Toby's wide awake in a heartbeat. He understands instantly and stares at Chris for a few seconds before looking away, breathing faster, his palms clammy. His body flushes hot all over, thinking of Chris toying with him, watching Toby's mouth opening and closing, his tongue, how he must have looked when he'd been trying to suck down his breakfast; then later, controlling the shower, the security cams, touching, talking to him, kissing him. Lying. All of the pretty lies.

Chris settles a warm washcloth over Toby's face and for a moment it's bliss, he can be ignorant again. Toby jerks his head away. "Don't touch me." He's hissing, a swell of anger expelled in a loud snarl. Unmoved, Chris wipes Toby's eyes with the cloth, following Toby's movements implacably, easily batting away Toby's raised hands. Finally Toby stops trying to evade him. The warmth feels nice on his eyelids and when Chris takes the washcloth away, Toby's vision clears. He sees Chris for the first time.

Make that for the second time, because oh god, it's the guy, the guy from the bar, with the eyes, the deep blue eyes that Toby had complimented him on, the guy he'd wanted to fuck, the guy he still wants to fuck, oh fuck, oh, god. He clenches his hands into tight fists, digging his fingernails into the meat of his palms. A high-pitched giggle escapes him because honestly, if this guy had wanted some kinky sex, he should have just asked.

The guy - Chris, and shit, he can't mesh the two - he's wearing jeans and a white wife beater, and he's got a long dark tattoo down one arm. Toby remembers hoping for a look at Chris the waiter out of his uniform. He laughs again, on the edge of hysteria. Guess the waiter remembered him after all.

"It's fucked up," Chris says, sitting down on the bed next to him and and Toby looks at him automatically, even though he doesn't want to, like his body's overriding his brain's commands.

"Hn," Toby says, processing it all, a decision made in a snap, a man plucked off the street, held captive, punched and kissed, lied to and used.

"All I wanna do is kiss you," Chris says.

Toby lies on his back and stares at the ceiling and listens.

Chris slides closer. "Let me kiss you."

"Fuck you," Toby says, and if he's hoped that his words will impact Chris, he's mistaken.

"I know you want to," Chris says, rubbing his hand up Toby's calf, moving up the bed.

"I don't," Toby whispers.

"Don't be so sure," Chris says, catching hold of Toby's wrists. Smoothly, he snaps the cuffs together, then clips them to the headboard. The movement's so familiar that Toby's instincts for flight kick in a few seconds late, plenty of time for Chris to lean back and do something to the cord of the ankle hobbles that makes the whole line snap rigidly into place, firmly pushing Toby's ankles apart.

Chris winks at him, and there's a self-congratulatory smile on his face. Clearly, he's enjoying watching Toby figuring out that he can't close his legs; the coil gives a little with each push, but Toby doesn't have enough leverage to win that fight. He gives up, slumping back, and glares at Chris. He has nothing to say.

"Tell me when I can kiss you, Toby," Chris says. He strips off his shirt and stretches out alongside Toby, wrapping one arm around Toby's neck, supporting his head. "I want you to do it, for me. Okay? So you let me know when I can."

Chris splays his hand on Toby's chest and kisses Toby's neck and rubs his thumb over Toby's nipple. Heat streaks through Toby's body and he trembles to keep from arching up to meet Chris's hand. Chris grinds closer, pressing harder against Toby's side. "You feel so good," Chris whispers into Toby's hair, hot breath on Toby's ear. "You taste so good," he says, punctuating the point with a long lick up Toby's collarbone to his jawline. Toby swallows hard against the moan working its way out of his throat.

"Fuck, you look so hot," Chris says, throwing a leg between them, his thigh brushing the underside of Toby's cock. "I love that you get hard for me."

Toby blushes bright red, the color spreading down his neck and chest, and he closes his eyes, tilting his face away from Chris.

The first time it had happened during a meal. Chris hadn't acknowledged it or tried to ease the tension. Toby had stewed, flat-out horrifyingly embarrassed. He'd lessened the mortification with concentrating on eating, which helped because it gave him something else to focus on. He didn't know if he was supposed to apologize or if it was better to not say anything at all, and ended up going with the latter. The next time, Chris had said, "Easy, tiger," and somehow that he had said something made it better.

The last time his cock had hardened in response to Chris, a bunch of jumbled, messed up thoughts crammed into Toby's head. He had thought for the briefest moment about Chris glancing down at Toby's cock, clinically, at first, then admiring it, maybe, or wanting to touch. He couldn't think of anything else after, imagining Chris's gaze on his hard dick for the entire meal, and was so ashamedly turned on by the time Chris left that he wished he could unsnap the clips on the cuffs not to escape but to jerk off all over the sheet.

"I love it," Chris insists, murmuring into Toby's ear. "Love watching you." He pushes his hips against Toby's thigh. "Feel what you do to me? Feel that?" He surges forward, tightening his grip on Toby's neck. "Do you?" he growls, making it clear that Toby better have the right answer.

"Yes," Toby whispers, eyes still closed.

"Yes, Chris," Chris says.

"Yes, Chris," Toby parrots.

"Good boy," Chris says, and Toby's skin flames hot again. Chris rubs his thumb over Toby's nipple again, letting the edge of his thumbnail drag over the peak, and this time Toby can't hold back the moan.

"Do it 'cause you like it," Chris says. "You're so goddamn gorgeous." He grabs Toby's chin and turns Toby's head back toward him. "Open your beautiful eyes. Watch me make you feel good."

Toby stares into Chris's eyes and there's no malice there, only sincerity. Chris looks hopeful, trustworthy. Toby blinks. He tugs on the cuffs. There's no give. Maybe that will balance out how close he is to giving in. Options are scarce, and suddenly it's easy to take that step.

"Kiss me," Chris says, "because you want to," and Toby does.

*

"Why?" Toby asks plaintively, head tilting back. His voice sounds hoarse and wrung out, and he is, mind looping, muscles aching. "Why? Why me?"

Lying next to him, Chris shrugs. His fingers play with the hair on the nape of Toby's neck. "I wanted you."

The statement's so matter of fact and plain, stripped of deceit, that it makes Toby's head hurt. "You _lied_ to me," he says, the words strangled.

"I'm not lyin' to you," Chris says, rolling up on one elbow, head propped in his hand. He dips his finger into Toby's bellybutton, swirling his finger around in the come gathered there, then tracing damp lines up Toby's abdomen. "I've never felt this way about anyone."

Toby kicks out, the movement awkward and ineffective, his body shaking as he fights the restraints. He barely moves at all, down maybe a foot, his head even with Chris's bicep. He slouches back in defeat. "You told me that you didn't know why I'd been taken. You did know," he says tiredly. He's bowled over by a wave of sadness, regret, something, and then he bursts into tears, sobbing, his forehead pressed against Chris's shoulder, his arms trembling at his sides. "You did. You knew."

"I knew you wanted to be mine," Chris says. "Now you're mine. I love you."

Toby lets go. He lets it all go.

*

Toby's face-down in the pillows, hogtied, thighs spread, with Chris's tongue in his ass. He arches and groans, wishing his hands were free so he could spread his ass cheeks and present himself to Chris.

Chris tugs on Toby's balls, twists the sac, takes little licks around Toby's asshole. "You can take more," he says, the low words sliding down Toby's back, followed by another hard tug. "You're doing so well, you're so fuckin' gorgeous." He works his thumb in, rocking his hand.

A fresh prickle of sweat breaks out over Toby's body and he pants out, "Chris," pleading.

"Love this, love watching you sweat," Chris says, grinning. "C'mon, help me make you come. Show me how much you like it when I touch you." He pushes his thumb in and out, then replaces it with two fingers. "Gonna make you feel so good." He's got a good grip on Toby's balls, rolling them, other thumb pressed up behind them, moving back and forth.

Toby shivers, working his ass on Chris's fingers, his hips jerking, and he finds a space between that and the fingers on his balls and rides the groove there, waiting for Chris to tell him that he can come. His cock throbs heavily in anticipation, and Chris pushing his tongue in along with his fingers is Toby's undoing. He keens, whines, shaking hard with the effort of waiting, waiting, and as though from far away hears the order and he's moving shamelessly now, taking what Chris gives him, giving up something of his own to Chris, too.

That's what people in love do.

*

"You've been missing for eight months, Mr. Beecher," a voice says, "Do you remember where you've been?"

Toby glances at the man sitting across from him. They're seated at a metal table in a gray cinder block of a room. The man's wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. There's a two-way mirror on one wall.

Toby looks down at his new watch. It's been twenty-seven hours since he's seen Chris.

"Do you remember me? I'm Detective Voigts."

Toby studies Voigts' face, then down at his watch again. It's only two o'clock, and Voigts has six o'clock shadow. Toby stares at the bristle of dark hair on the guy's chin. It looks like Chris after a day or two without shaving, scruff on the way to becoming a beard.

It had taken much longer for Toby's beard to grow, but Chris had shaved it off in a matter of minutes using a razor that he had sharpened on a strop, right in front of Toby. "You look good without a beard," he'd said, and Toby had replied, "I love you," and kissed him, lather from his upper lip smearing against Chris's mouth.

"Mr. Beecher?" Voigts slides a folder in front of Toby. "I have some papers I need you to look at."

Toby shrugs, the shirt they'd given him at the hospital rubbing unpleasantly on his skin, and he squirms in his seat. He's pretty rusty with paperwork, but he'll give it a shot. "Will I see Chris afterwards?"

"Uh, no," Voigts says, leaning forward, his fingers steepled together. "Go ahead and open that up." He points both index fingers at Toby like he's aiming a gun.

The first thing in the folder is a picture of Chris, and Toby stares at it. He doesn't want to let it go when Voigts reaches out for it, so he bares his teeth until Voigts gets the message.

"Listen, Mr. Beecher, Toby," Voigts says. "Can I call you Toby?"

Toby shakes his head. No way. Chris would be livid.

Voigts tries again. "Listen, Chris Keller is being charged with kidnapping – that's a class A1 felony in New York State – along with six other charges of the first degree, and a couple of his old favorites like criminal possession of a firearm and resisting arrest. Don't worry, Mr. Beecher. He's in a cell right now, and he'll be going to jail for a very long time."

It feels strange to rest his wrists on the tabletop, so Toby lines the picture of Chris right up with the edge of the table, close enough that he'd get to it before Voigts, and then he returns his hands to his thighs, palms up, relaxing into the position. Toby spreads his legs wider, sets his feet down at the length of the hobble. Much better. It's easier to tune out the words, easier to sit as if he's just waiting for Chris to come back into the room.

"With your help, Mr. Beecher, we could be sure that Keller's convicted. Your testimony'd help us put him away for good." Voigts' pencil beats out a fast _tap-tap-tap_ on the metal top of the table.

Toby studies the picture of Chris, dark eyes under the scrunch of his eyebrows. His mouth, the curve of his upper lip. Toby burns to hear his voice, feel his touch. He needs it.

Voigts sighs heavily. "Listen, you're not the first man he's done this to; you're not even the fifth. Keller doesn't want you. He kidnapped you, he abused you. He took away your rights. You're not the only person who's been convinced of his... his love, okay? You're just lucky that he didn't murder you when he was done with you like the ones before."

Toby snorts. What a ludicrous thought; Chris would never kill him.

He remembers the last words Chris had said to him. "No one will ever love you the way I do."

"What're his chances of making bail?" Toby asks, staring into the flat eyes in Chris's mugshot. Chris looks furious, tense and miserable.

Voigts lets the pencil drop. "He's being held in custody on remand."

Toby nods, working it out in his head. The six first-degree crimes together would cost Chris thirty years minimum. Toby's pretty sure Chris has priors, and there'd be a violent predicate, so he may as well double that number, and that's without the kidnapping on the table. Toby's pretty sure that he can get four of the charges dropped, so, twenty inside, give or take, and he'll hire Gramber and Sons for their defenses. He's sure they'll get the kidnapping reduced to second- or third-degree, leaving Toby thinking about what he can do to earn himself fifteen years in prison.  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for eggshellseas for the Oz Magi holiday shankfest of 2010. [Originally posted on LJ](http://oz-magi.livejournal.com/91499.html).
> 
> Wish #10  
> Request 1:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Beecher/Keller  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: Stockholm Syndrome  
> Canon/AU/Either: AU  
> Special Requests: I'm a big fan of Chris' darker side - possessiveness, obsession, cruelty, and smut is always appreciated.  
> Story/Art/Either: story  
> 


End file.
